2006 was a year of unprotected sex for me. No, not every time, but I started off the year with a fling with a slightly older man I was besotted with, who didn’t speak a word about condoms, and, in response, I didn’t either. I wanted to trust that he had some magical knowledge that somehow I was missing, that maybe the world had overturned itself and they were no longer necessary. I was wrong, and after a pregnancy panic as I searched for Plan B—this was right before it was so readily available—I escaped unscathed. Then later that year I met a guy I fell absolutely head over heels with, sure that we were destined to be together.
The second time he and I hooked up, he confessed that he was dating someone, but she didn’t mind if he had sex with other people, “as long as I use a condom.” That was funny, because he kept trying to convince me to go without. They later split up, but he still didn’t see what the big deal was about wrapping it up. I’d lecture him about the need for protection, he’d say okay, and somehow he’d wind up inserting his penis into me. “Doesn’t that feel good?” I was shocked that a man of 39 was acting no more mature than a teenager. He knew I wasn’t using birth control, yet didn’t seem to care about anything except his sexual satisfaction. I wound up going on the Pill for him, but we broke up soon after, and I went off it, hoping that those two were just an aberration. Could there really be a generation of guys out there who just didn’t care about STIs and potential pregnancy?
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So how is it that just a week ago, I switched places with these guys and became the one to instigate condomless sex?
Read the rest of the essay on The Frisky.